Whetstones of the Will

by R J Hanson

“Trust, really,” Dunewell replied simply. “We are still a day ahead of when we’re to meet Jonas, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Since we’ve managed to get behind Inquisitor Ranoct and his troop, we should have some leeway there as well. I say we walk and lead the horses and let them rest as much as possible. Ranoct has pushed them hard to catch up to us as it is, and we may need their speed after we rejoin with Jonas.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Why haven’t we had any trouble with giants or ogres?” Dunewell asked, noting a few broken tree limbs indicative of one of the large creatures’ passing.

  “I’m sure we’ve been seen, smelled at the very least,” Maloch said with a yawn. “But you travel with Maloch the Black Lance, the Knight of Sorrows, as far as they know anyway. We’ll not be bothered by any giants or ogres any time soon.”

  “Get a few hours rest then,” Dunewell suggested. “I’ll keep watch.”

  The only response Dunewell perceived from Maloch was his gentle snoring that began after a few moments of silence. Dunewell, still sitting back to back with Maloch, couldn’t see the northern horizon, but he could see the horses. These were quality war horses and well trained. They would let him know if any trouble came toward them from an unseen angle.

  In the quiet hours of that concealed mountain valley, Dunewell took the time for true introspection. Dunewell’s thoughts turned briefly to his mother, Lady Helena. He had loved her, of course, but it had always pained him to see the way she treated Silas, even when he was a young boy, as though his presence reminded her of a curse. That was much easier to understand now, knowing that Silas, through Helena’s hand and not his, was a reminder of the fact that she had murdered her husband and Dunewell’s father to share the bed of a lesser man. Dunewell had not taken the time to grieve the loss of his mother and certainly had not taken the time to acknowledge her crimes of adultery and mariticide. That led him to think of his brother.

  Perhaps Silas was redeemable, Dunewell had to believe that forgiveness existed for any who truly sought it. However, forgiveness did not preclude consequences. Silas had murdered many, and, among that number, several innocents. He must face justice for that, even if forgiveness was asked for and granted. Silas must face adjudication. He had failed Silas; however, his regrets over that failure did nothing to mitigate Silas’s culpability.

  Dunewell’s heart was at ease with this conclusion, and thus he knew it to be the right one.

  That matter settled, or as settled as it could be for now, Dunewell turned his thoughts to Lord Maloch. Of course, Maloch held no lands, nor did he serve the King in any capacity, but, in Dunewell’s mind, the title of lord was one of respect that he believed Maloch had earned many times over. If a man’s life were a scale, good deeds on one side and evil on the other, Dunewell doubted Maloch could ever tip the scales in his favor. However, Dunewell doubted any man really could. Dunewell himself had taken lives, both in battle and in summary executions. He knew other soldiers and knights who kept a count of those they’d slain. Dunewell never needed to, for he saw the faces of his dead almost daily.

  Maloch had come to them, a drow, and a well-known villain to Jonas. He had expected earning a chance even to be heard would be difficult, if not impossible. So, who could Maloch be allied with that Dunewell and Jonas would hold in even greater contempt? Dunewell decided the first night at a campfire after they collected Jonas would be the time to have that talk. He doubted Jonas would let it go any later than that anyway. Dunewell closed that matter in his head as well and moved on to the next item he must consider.

  Slythorne. Dunewell had never heard of Slythorne before coming to know Jonas, but he had faced many other vampires during his time in Tarborat. He knew them well enough to know that thralls were difficult for them to enslave much less control at a distance. Furthermore, the wills of soldiers, fighting men, were even more difficult for them to master. Slythorne had mastered half a dozen and manipulated them from leagues away.

  If that weren’t enough to indicate how truly dangerous Slythorne could be, he only had to think of his new companion, Jonas, aka the Gray Spider, and realize he’d been hunting Slythorne for several decades. It was not luck that kept Slythorne from Jonas’s blade for all those years; it was cunning and power.

  Dunewell knew Sir Brutis and Lord Velryk regretted letting a vampire, a master vampire, slip away from them in the years they served in Tarborat before Dunewell had joined them. Brutis and Velryk weren’t the sort of men you asked about something like that, or anything else for that matter. Dunewell assumed if they didn’t elaborate on the failure, there was likely a reason for it, and he had let it go at that. Now, based on what Maloch told him, he understood why it would be a sore subject for Velryk, and for Jonas.

  Slythorne would be dangerous, even more so if encountered near the city where he would have such a source of potential thralls. Thus, they would have to lure him away from Moras somehow. They would have to also find a way to confine his movements. Master vampires were dangerous enough with their usual combination of martial prowess and advanced repertoire of magic. They were almost impossible to slay when the battlefield offered room for flight. Fortunately, their curse required a deep, dark place to rest, hidden far from the sun and its killing light. Thus, if a man could find their lair, he stood a chance. If not…

  Dunewell knew Moras, her streets, and the mountainous regions around her. He had no doubt there were caverns inhabited by creatures more akin to Slythorne’s ways of thinking than his own. The channels of Moras would limit his movements; thus, Dunewell decided it would be best to begin a map of Moras that both Maloch and Jonas could study and on which they all could confer. They would also need weapons of silver or Roarke’s Ore, blessed if possible, and Churchwood. Water from an altar from any of the churches would be helpful, though it was not as effective against a master as it was other types of vampires.

  Jonas’s, or rather Ruble’s, resources of House De’Char might be very helpful, but Dunewell couldn’t rely on them in his planning. He did want to keep all possibilities on the table, though. Dunewell would have to be disguised because of the King’s Warrant. Maloch would have to be disguised because of his race. Dunewell hoped, given Jonas’s proclivities regarding stealth and subterfuge, their identities wouldn’t be too much a problem. He decided those topics would hold for now until he had a chance to speak with Jonas.

  Those items sorted as much as they could be, Dunewell turned his mind to Stewardess Erin and the enchantment she had cast on him. The spell was clearly one to influence him to be romantically involved with her. But why? Dunewell was no rube, and women had tried to ply him before. Furthermore, he had faced the spells of witches and vampires that sought to control his mind and exercise some modicum of control over his actions. Never had he been taken in so thoroughly and unsuspectingly. The spell had been a powerful one.

  Erin’s motives, and possible cohorts, might not tie into the other problems in Moras, but he must keep the possibility in mind. He must remember there is someone out there who is after him and that someone has access to powerful enchantments. Dunewell wracked his mind but could think of no shadowy enemies of his past that might be lurking and hoping for a chance to ensnare him. No former foes or detractors came to mind.

  There were also parts of Erin’s history that were a mystery to him. He did know her as a child and was aware that she had been back in Moras for a few months before the murders of Killian and Helena. Yet, now that he thought about it, he had no idea where she had been in the interim. Then his inquisitor’s mind finally took hold of a thought. He found it quite suspicious that she should arrive only weeks before her uncle’s sudden death and be the only one remaining to inherit House Theald. He knew Silas had killed Rugan, but how could Erin have known that would happen? Had there been another plan in the offing to murder Rugan and Silas simply beat them to it?

  This, too, would have to keep until he had more information. Thus, Dunewell stirred the components o
f what he knew and what he guessed into the usual mixture in his mind and let his under-mind work the puzzle. This talent, this ability of his, was among the reasons he was chosen to be an inquisitor and was approached by the Sword Bearers to become part of their brotherhood.

  So, Dunewell ate of his smoked fish, had a drink from his waterskin, and enjoyed the quiet beauty of this snowy forest. As the sun passed to the western side of the mountains of Nolcavanor, a shadow stretched across the narrow valley. Dunewell guessed it no later than three hours past luncheon but decided they needed to move. The horses, and Maloch for that matter, had their rest, and it was time to find Jonas.

  Dunewell gave a slight shrug and heard Maloch’s breathing behind him change immediately.

  “Do you need any rest?” Maloch asked in a clear, and surprisingly unmuddled tone.

  “No, I can push on.”

  “Very well then,” Maloch said as he rose from the ground and brushed dead leaves and snow from his trousers and cloak.

  It was cold, but not so cold as to put out two soldiers the likes of Maloch and Dunewell. With night coming on, it would become colder still, and the horses would fare better if they were on the move.

  They rubbed all three horses down and re-saddled them. The warhorses seemed eager to be on their way, so, once mounted, Maloch and Dunewell gave them their heads and allowed them to gallop through the snow and among the trees for the first half-hour. As they neared the point of the valley where it rose sharply, they reined in, and Maloch studied the pass.

  “Any chance it is snowed in?” Dunewell asked.

  “Very unlikely,” Maloch replied, not taking his eyes from the mountainside.

  “So, why are we stopped here?”

  “I’m giving any ogres or giants along the way a chance to see me,” Maloch responded matter-of-factly. “I’ve no doubt either of us could handle any in this region without too much trouble, but, just the same, I’d rather avoid it if possible.”

  “There’s none up there,” Dunewell said, without really thinking about it. “The way is clear.”

  “How could you know that?”

  Dunewell didn’t have an answer to that question. He just knew. He suspected it was an aspect of Whitburn, one that he had yet to explore or had the chance to come to understand. Dunewell was beginning to think of being a Lord of Order was much like having a newly purchased and highly trained horse. The horse was usually smarter than the rider, but the rider was in charge. There was also a period during which the rider had to learn the horse’s personality, capabilities, and limitations. The horse had to learn the same things about the rider.

  Maloch led the way on the chestnut; Dunewell swapped to the third horse, a dappled white mare, and led the black mare giving her a chance to rest. They were able to ride for the first several hours, however, as they climbed the trail narrowed and became more treacherous. Furthermore, it was a cloudy night, and there was no light from the moon or any stars making the path difficult for the horses to find. Thus, Maloch and Dunewell, each with his own means of superior vision in the dark, dismounted and walked the rest of the night, leading the horses behind them.

  They snacked on dried fruit and hard bread they’d discovered in one of the packs, their eyes on the rocky outcroppings around them, and their minds on the road they must now walk. Dunewell felt much better about what was to come simply from having had a few hours to collect his thoughts and order them. Now his under-mind could work on those problems freeing his upper-mind of the worry. He knew he would have to make time to grieve the loss of his mother, the news of what she had done, and all that had transpired with Silas. However, having spent years in Tarborat, he knew he could do that in increments, or put it aside until he did have the time. It was one of those tricks that soldiers must learn that cannot be taught.

  “He’s just up ahead, along a path to the right,” Dunewell whispered to Maloch.

  Dunewell knew that, other than Jonas nearby, they were alone, but he didn’t want his voice to carry too far in the crisp night air.

  “Jonas is?” Maloch asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You see him?”

  “No, well, not really.”

  “What are his intentions?”

  “He’s planning on following us for a while to make sure that we weren’t followed,” Dunewell said, not really thinking about it. “Then he’ll approach from the dark and try to walk right up on us, so he can make himself seem even more superior to us and keep us guessing as to the true extent of his capabilities.”

  Dunewell heard Maloch chuckle softly.

  “What?” Dunewell asked, a bit loudly.

  “You have the sight, but you don’t know it yet,” Maloch said. “Lord Mandergane, the legendary paladin who carried Shrou-sheld Blancet, had it. Only he and the few Lords of Order I knew of possessed the ability.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “You know where Jonas is.”

  “Well, yes, but that’s a simple matter of…”

  “How do you know what he’s thinking?” Maloch interjected.

  “I…”

  “You don’t know, but you feel it,” Maloch said. “The sight can see a man though he’s hidden and can see a man’s heart even though his tongue may lie. It will likely take some practice, and time, to learn to use it, but you have it. It could be a powerful ally.”

  “Be warned, though,” Jonas’s voice came to them from the dark ahead and still out of Maloch’s sight. “It can become a crutch. Never neglect what your eyes see or what your nose smells. Shadow Blades have a way of fooling the magic of the sight.”

  “Magic?” Dunewell asked.

  Jonas emerged from the shadows ahead of them and made his way quietly along the treacherous path.

  “What do you call your use of the champion’s powers?” Jonas asked.

  “It seems like more than magic; feels like more than magic,” Dunewell said.

  “Because it is very close to the arcane source,” Maloch chimed. “All enchantments come from the same source, the arcane power. It is a combination of the three types of magic. It is the type of power the gods use, and thus, very close to what you have access to through your champion.”

  “So, even more potent than the spells of a paladin?” Dunewell asked.

  “By far,” Maloch and Jonas both answered, unintentionally in unison.

  Jonas approached Dunewell and held out a hand for the reins of the third horse. Dunewell passed them over, and Jonas fell into line behind Dunewell and Maloch. Maloch led them on for several long moments before any of them spoke again. They all seemed to realize what must be said between them next was essential to all of them, and as fragile as Jonas’s trust in Maloch.

  “Your brother also has such power,” Maloch said, finally breaking the silence that had fallen on them with such weight in the darkness. “His is a twisted version, but potent just the same. He can not be permitted to align himself with Slythorne. We don’t believe that likely, but it is one possible outcome that could be catastrophic.”

  “Putting it bluntly, the Lord High Paladin here wants to manipulate you into being a weapon against your brother and the evil he has become,” Jonas said, just loud enough to be heard over the sounds of hooves striking stones. “Just as I hope to employ you as a weapon against Slythorne and whatever minions he is able to conjure. We both want to use you, and it would seem that our goals may align. So far as being blunt goes, we have also yet to learn of the drow’s mysterious partners.”

  “This trail will lead us to a high crou-mountva, a small glade near one of the mountain peaks,” Maloch said, waving to the north. “That small grove is surrounded on all sides by high stone walls and thus is protected from the wind and the eyes of the outside world. We could have a fire and perhaps some proper rest for us and the horses. I thought that a good place for our palaver.”

  “Seems reasonable,” Dunewell said, for he too was anxious to get a few problems out in the open. “How did you fare against
the drow?”

  Dunewell had seen the sword hilt, presumably of Jonas’s new Shyeld-Hayn, protruding from heavy drow cloak Jonas had wrapped it in. What he had seen looked to be of silver, or possibly Roarke’s Ore pommel and crosspiece, divided by a hand and a half grip wrapped in a cable of red wire. The cloak had only slipped from the handle briefly, when Jonas had tied it to the saddle of his horse, allowing Dunewell a quick glance.

  “I finished my sword,” Jonas said without any fanfare or brag. “Credit where credit is due, I miss traveling with a paladin that can manipulate time. However, I’ve never known any that could manipulate the hours and days as you have. I planted the torn clothing of their captives among one faction and returned the offending dagger to its owner, who was found out shortly thereafter. You wanted in-fighting that diminish their numbers. They are most assuredly on that path. Speaking of…”

  “Turned over to Inquisitor Ranoct and his men without trouble,” Dunewell answered the unfinished question. “They are safe and should buy us all the time we’ll need.”

  “Should,” Maloch echoed, emphasizing the many uncertainties that faced them.

  They walked higher up along the trail pointed for the north peak, the only sounds those of the wind through the decreasing trees and the subdued clacks of hooves against stone. As they walked, Dunewell noticed Jonas eating smoked fish and jerky from the pack and draining a waterskin. He felt bad then, for not realizing how hungry Jonas must have been. It had been a few days for Dunewell and Maloch, but to Jonas, thanks to Maloch’s time spell, it had been closer to a week and a half.

  Near midnight the three tired warriors crested a rise and found the slim crevice that led to Maloch's hidden mountain grove. Dunewell noticed the change in temperature and environment immediately. The air was at least ten degrees warmer, and there were several tall pines and aspens crowded into the crou-mountva that was no more than six or seven acres in size. He had not realized how the north wind had been chilling them until being greeted by the unusual warmth of this small meadow.